Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The FoolHorace Holley
H
Into our darker world and dimmer plan.
Although he wore the body of a man
It looked like clothes at second hand, so worn
That worldlier people pushed him by in scorn.
Patient, he set his clock as our clocks ran
And faithfully each day its task began—
Night found him still beginning as at morn.
The hand that built for dream and not for pay.
Try as he might, he came at last to naught—
A lonely statue crumbling day by day;
Which somehow woke an echo in our thought
Of life forgotten in the greed to live.